


say he'll fall and fall he will

by jk_rockin



Series: this whole affair is an outrage [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Anal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light Bondage, Under-negotiated Kink, Vaginal Sex, ill-advised eroticised reactions to trauma, just in references to the first story, this one is entirely consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24250939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jk_rockin/pseuds/jk_rockin
Summary: It did not seem fair. They had won. The Phantom was gone. How dare the shade of that man creep into the very bed of their marriage and soil them, still, with his foulness?
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: this whole affair is an outrage [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750477
Comments: 17
Kudos: 32





	say he'll fall and fall he will

**Author's Note:**

> My version of recovery fic, which, uh... isn't really recovery fic, so much as two emotionally compromised people getting horny over their trauma. This is a direct sequel to [no way of turning the tide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23920345); it won't make much sense if you haven't read that, and contains references of varying obliqueness to the content of that story. Title also from 'Notes/Twisted Every Way', from Phantom of the Opera. Let me know if I haven't tagged for something and you wish I had.

The Phantom had ruined Raoul. He had ruined so much in his rampage of terror, had taken lives and destroyed property; what he had done to Raoul seemed almost trivial in comparison, but it did not feel trivial when he woke in the night, sweating, with the ghostly sensation of those cold hands on his back. It did not feel trivial when the dreams lingered with him, blood running cold everywhere but for the searing throb between his legs.

On balance he had been lucky, and ought to be grateful. He had been found, slumped and sticky in his own disgrace in the Phantom's secret passages, by the Persian alone. The excellent gentleman had been kind to him, helped him tidy and cover himself, and had asked no questions as to what had happened. Raoul had not been damaged, physically, by the assault. None but Raoul, and, of course, that misery of a Phantom, ever had to know what had passed between them in that hideous twilight world.

It did not seem fair. They had won. The Phantom was gone. How dare the shade of that man creep into the very bed of their marriage and soil them, still, with his foulness?

Christine, too, often woke in the night. They maintained separate bedrooms, for the sake of decorum if nothing else, but they had hardly slept a night apart since that last one at the Opera, even before their wedding. Sharing a bed, Christine could sometimes sleep through the night; alone, she woke screaming.

She was sleeping peacefully when Raoul woke with a start from another such dream. This one had been unusually intense; in it, the Phantom had dispensed with the gun as intermediary, and had instead taken Raoul with his fingers- those cold, bony, delicate fingers, deft and probing and skittering like spiders-

Shuddering all over, Raoul threw back the covers. He tried very hard to ignore the ache between his thighs. His face, too, felt very hot, so he swung his legs out of bed and padded over to the washstand in quest of water.

Pressing a dampened cloth to his forehead relieved him a little, and the night air was cool on his skin. He leaned against the washstand, and breathed slowly, trying to slow his racing heart.

“Raoul?” said Christine. He turned to see her sitting up in bed, looking rumpled and confused.

“Go back to sleep,” said Raoul softly.

He pressed the cloth to his face again, and used it to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck. His cock was still hard from the dream, which he would rather it was not when he got back into bed with his wife, but he knew Christine wouldn’t sleep without him beside her.

The sheets on his side of the bed were still a little damp. He got in anyway, and turned onto his side facing away from Christine.

“Are you well?” Christine murmured, close behind him. She brought one hand up to rest on his arm. “You’re very warm.”

“Quite well,” Raoul said. He wanted to roll closer into her body and let her touch soothe him, but the shame of his dream and his body’s reaction still clung to him.

Christine was quiet for a moment. “Only- you were crying out in your sleep, and tossing and turning. I thought perhaps you might have been upset by a dream.”

“Something of that sort,” said Raoul. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I’m not,” she said. “This isn't the first time your rest has been disturbed. I’d like to help, if I can.”

Raoul laughed a short, bitter laugh. “You know who I was dreaming about,” he said.

“It didn’t sound like it was a bad dream,” said Christine. Her hand smoothed down his side and over his hip, her palm warm through the cotton of his nightshirt. When she spoke again, her voice quivered. “I dream of him, sometimes, and mine are not all bad dreams, either.”

The feeling of tension in his chest increased. “Christine, when you were with him, did he- did he ever-”

“No,” she replied. “No. I kissed him, when- well, you were there- but that was all that ever happened, between us.”

Raoul closed his eyes, feeling tears of relief prick at them. “But you still dream of him, and they are… not always bad dreams.”

“Yes,” Christine whispered.

It was strange, but his first response to hearing this and all that it implied, was not anger, or even jealousy, but pride- pride that his wife was brave enough to tell him this. He reached out to his bedside table, and, by the thin moonlight coming in through the window, groped for a matchbox and lit the lamp. He sat up, turning back to Christine, who was watching him with big, dark eyes, waiting for him to respond. “There is a story I must tell you,” he said, and, folding her hand in his, he began to tell it.

For all that the incident had been to him, it did not take long to tell. A few words might have made up the whole, but Raoul did not tell it in a few words; he explained all that had happened, and, in a voice that was not always steady, all that he had felt, and what sensations he had experienced. When it was told, they sat together in silence for long minutes. She did not let go of his hands.

“Strange, with all I knew he had done, to be so shocked to think him capable of that,” said Christine.

“I wonder you can still bear to touch me,” Raoul said, throat tight with emotion. “He was right about me, Christine. It was a cruel lesson, and cruelly taught, but I know, now, what I am, and I cannot forget it.”

“What you are is a kind, dear, brave man,” Christine said. “No phantom can take that from you.”

“Christine,” said Raoul, almost pained to hear her say such things after what he had confessed. “Christine, I _enjoyed_ it. I wake thinking about it. If he had not had me gagged, I don’t know what I would have said. What I might have asked of him.”

She shifted on the bed beside him. “I had thought, perhaps, that he had not really wanted me,” she said, low and soft. “That it was my voice, the music we made together, and not me that he had wanted after all. Maybe I was right.”

“I doubt that very much,” said Raoul. “He had me on my knees, at his mercy, and he spoke of nothing but you.”

Christine’s hands clenched on his. “I want to see,” she said.

“Christine,” said Raoul, uncertainly.

“You told me he said you were beautiful, on your knees,” said Christine. “I want to see it.”

He might have thought she was joking if it were not for her expression, so serious and so focused, but she was not joking, and he did not look away from her as he got back out of bed. As he lowered himself to the ground, she moved towards him, letting her legs dangle over the edge of the bed. Her look only increased in intensity as he settled back on his heels, the rug prickling the skin of his calves.

It felt- it was very silly, but to be on his knees before his wife felt… significant, somehow. Heavy with meaning. Christine’s eyes gleamed in the lamplight. “Am I beautiful, then?” said Raoul. It had been intended as a lighthearted comment; that was not how it sounded, when he said it.

“Yes,” said Christine. “But this is not how he saw you.”

For a moment, he did not understand her meaning, but when he did, he felt his face flush. His fingers tightened in the fabric of his nightshirt where it was rucked up around his thighs. This was ridiculous. He had disrobed in front of Christine before; they had made love, for God’s sake. He should not feel so shy about her seeing him. Taking a steadying breath, he pulled the hem over his head, and was about to cast the garment aside when Christine spoke again.

“He tied your arms behind your back,” she said.

Raoul nodded. It was awkward to keep his arms in the sleeves, and took a little undignified wriggling, but he managed, ending up with his hands behind him and the shirt bunched around them. It was not the same as being restrained- he could simply drop the shirt, should he wish to.

Christine stood. Her own nightdress came to mid-calf, and it swished about her legs as she walked a slow circle around him where he knelt. His cock had gone soft while he had recounted his tale, but it was stirring again now, in anticipation of what she might do next. “Do you intend to gag me next?” asked Raoul.

She touched his face, guiding his chin up to make him look at her, and her thumb glided over his parted lips. “It seems a shame to hide your lovely mouth,” she said softly.

Again, heat rose in his cheeks. He pursed his lips to kiss her palm.

“Erik was right,” she said softly. “He did not know how right he was. He never saw you as you are now- he forced you to your knees, but all I had to do was ask it of you.” She nudged his lips open, slipping her thumb into his mouth, and he let her, tasting her skin and the cream she applied before bed. Her skin was so soft. It seemed the natural thing to flick his tongue over the pad of her thumb, and to suckle at it when she pressed it in deeper. She made a sound in the back of her throat, a restrained sigh of pleasure, that Raoul felt all the way down to his toes.

Christine withdrew her thumb, leaving his lips damp and tingling. “All you ever have to do is ask,” said Raoul.

"Oh, Raoul," she said. "I want- you will think me mad-"

"Ask me," he said. "If it is in my power to give it, it is yours."

Her fingers trembled against his cheek. "Show me how you looked when he… when he took you,” she said. 

Raoul shivered, not unpleasantly. The Phantom- _Erik_ , she called him, though it was odd to hear him called by a Christian name, like an ordinary man- had not truly taken him, but he understood what she wanted. Even being careful, pitching himself forward unaided was tricky; he managed to jar himself a bit when his shoulder hit the carpet, and he had to grip the shirt to keep his hands in position behind him, but her sharply indrawn breath told him that she, like her Erik, was not unmoved by what she saw.

He could not see much besides the carpet, and Christine’s feet beside him. He felt, rather than saw, when she moved away, and tried to remain calm. It was not long before she was back, and kneeling beside him. “Keep your hands behind you,” said Christine. He obeyed, letting her pull away the nightshirt which had fallen to cover most of his back, and feeling something soft and silky loop around his wrists. A scarf, perhaps, or some other small article of clothing. Whatever it was, she bound his hands with it, and when he strained against the bonds, they held him secure.

It was not like when the Phantom had done this to him. All he had felt when forced into such a position mingled with all he felt having put himself here willingly, and the mixture was a heady one. The Phantom, also, had not run cool, soft fingers over his back, as Christine was now doing, as though exploring new territory. “I trust you do not have a pistol about you,” said Raoul, muffled somewhat by his face being pressed against the rug.

Her hand touched his lower back, and spread out over the curve of his rear. The gentle caress raised goosebumps in its wake, the skin unused to such tender attentions, and he shivered again, helplessly aware of what Christine must be seeing, and of how hard he was already. Her fingers vanished, and returned a moment later, slippery with something sweet-scented.

"I have no pistol," murmured Christine. "You are not in any danger with me."

That did not seem true. Her slick digits tracing down the cleft of his buttocks seemed fraught with danger, although not the same kind as a gun. "Christine, you do not have to," said Raoul, feeling somewhat lightheaded. "You need not indulge my perversions-"

"Indulge _you_?" She laughed- not her usual high, rippling laugh, but a low, strange chuckle. “I want to see,” she said once again, and she pressed her index finger to his hole.

Again he found himself perplexed by his own emotions. What he felt now was, of all things, gratitude. He was grateful that he had bathed tonight; that his wife wore her fingernails short and neatly manicured; that they could be in this together, here, in their bedroom. He ought to be ashamed, but how could he, when each twitch of Christine’s finger within him sent frissons of sensation through him like flashpots going off onstage? He was making inarticulate sounds in time with the movement of her hand, as she worked her finger in and out of him, and almost wished she had chosen to gag him.

“He never saw you like this.” Her voice was quiet, but intense; he craned his neck to hear her better. “He had you bound and helpless. He could have done anything to you, as I can, now, and he chose to- I cannot understand him,” she said, frustration bleeding from the words. “Even now, I cannot.”

"He spoke of his vow to you," said Raoul, somewhat strained. "Of wanting to be faithful."

"Faithful," echoed Christine. Her voice sounded odd and faraway. "As though I had asked him to be. As though he ever intended... he never tried, not once, not even to kiss me, not even when he had me in wedding-clothes. I should be glad of that, shouldn’t I? That he never did such things to me?”

Her finger touched something inside Raoul that sent a ripple of new, unsettling pleasure through him, and he groaned. “Please,” he said. “Christine, please, more.”

She drew in a sharp breath, but did not hesitate to move back to add more of whatever she was using to her fingers. When she pressed back in with two, his back arched under the sensation, and he cried out again. Christine’s free hand slid from his upper back, where it had rested on his shoulder blade, to the dip of his spine, not pressing, but merely feeling how it curved.

In the dream that had woken him and set all this in motion, the Phantom had done as she was doing, with his long, cold fingers. The dream Phantom had shoved two into Raoul at once, and roughly, though of course Raoul had only imagined how that might feel. When the real Erik had violated him, the pistol barrel had also been cold and thin, though not much longer than a finger; as he was now learning, even a single finger did not feel the same at all. Christine's skin was warm, and the way her fingers flexed within him was shockingly good.

Of course, at the time, the gun had felt good, too.

“You like this so much,” she said, sounding surprised.

“I did tell you,” said Raoul. The carpet, which felt so soft underfoot, was abrasive against his face, but he could not care about that with Christine's fingers pumping inside him. His body moved to the rhythm she set with her hand, and his mouth dragged, half open, across the floor.

“You did, but I never thought- your cock is so hard.” He found himself equally thrilled and horrified, hearing his sweet, delicate wife say _cock_ ; the word alone acted upon him as her touch might have. “Did Erik like this?” she asked abruptly. “Did he, Raoul?”

Thinking was difficult, but the question seared him. “He was hard,” he gasped. “I felt it against my thigh.”

“But he was faithful to me. He wanted you, as he wanted me, but he was faithful, even though you are so lovely like this,” said Christine, her voice faraway again. She twisted her hand, and the rub of her knuckles on that spot inside him was wonderful. “You bend exquisitely. "

Heat spiked in his belly. He felt wild, abandoned to sensation, delirious with it. This was ludicrous. She had not touched his cock at all, had not manipulated any other part of him; her fingers inside him, her hand on his back, and her words in his ears were enough to overwhelm him.

She stroked his back again. “Don’t come,” she said, and then her fingers were gone, sliding out of him with a wet sound.

He crouched there, panting, disoriented. Christine was moving again; he heard her drop to the floor, heard the rustle of fabric moving over carpet and skin, and then her hands were back on him, on his head and the back of his neck, drawing him forward. The soft skin of the insides of Christine’s thighs brushed against his shoulders, and the smell of her, warm and heady, filled his nose. She didn’t have to tell him what she wanted.

They hadn’t done this much. He’d never even heard of such a thing before they were married. Christine had had years of the gossip of the corps de ballet and the opera chorus to teach her about the less orthodox ways of love, but only second-hand, and they were both- had been, before the whirlwind of this night- a little shy in bed together. He did not feel shy now. She was so wet under his tongue, and she made such sweet sounds with each lick that he could not help but bury his face in the heat of her cunt and work at her, suddenly frantic to bring her to her peak.

Beneath him, Christine writhed with every movement. Her fingers, clenched in his hair, still smelled of that perfumed substance she had used to penetrate him; the scent made his head spin even more giddily than the smell of her, and he was very aware, as he licked and sucked, of his hands, bound behind his back, and of the coolness of the night air on the slickness between the cheeks of his upturned backside. It did not take long, even without the use of his hands, for her to stiffen and cry out under his ministrations, but he didn’t stop until she pushed his head away.

With her hands under his shoulders, Christine helped him sit up on his knees. Raoul was still dizzy when she kissed him, and the taste of her between them did not make him any less so. “Darling,” she murmured, and kissed him again, long and lingering.

He felt helpless, but sweetly so, and he followed her blindly as she reached around him to untie his hands, and guided him up and back into bed. She arranged him on his back, and sat herself astride his thighs, taking his wrists in her hands again and rubbing gently at the reddened skin. Even that relatively innocent touch made him quiver. His erection had not flagged while he had attended to Christine’s pleasure, and it bordered on painful now, lying against his belly. He said nothing, but simply gazed up at her.

Wordlessly, she gathered up the bottom of her nightdress, exposing her milky white thighs. She planted one hand on his chest, and with the other she guided his prick between her legs, sinking down on him with luxurious, hitching rolls of her hips. Raoul arched under her, overwhelmed again by sensation.

This they had never done. When they had made love before, he had always been on top of her. He had set the pace. In the grand scheme of things, the reversal was not so significant as all that, but it felt significant as she moved, so hot and so slick around him. He had never thought about it, not really; when they had lain together, he had felt himself master, in the ordinary way a man might feel when he made love to a woman. That seemed very foolish, now. Christine had mastered him effortlessly, as he had never mastered her, and it made every nerve in his body sing to lie there, pinned by her body and by her will, a tool for her gratification. Oh, to be inside her felt good, of course- what an inadequate word- but the mere physical sensations of lovemaking paled in comparison to the look on her face as she rode him faster, as she pressed one of his hands between her legs to touch her.

“Christine,” he said, all other words and thoughts abandoning him. “Christine, Christine-”

“Raoul,” she said, almost a wail, and the muscles of her cunt clamped like a vise around his cock as she reached her peak again. At some point, Raoul, too, came; it was almost an afterthought, though he shook with it, and it left him weak and gasping on the bed.

He felt his prick slip free of her, and felt her moving about, wiping him down with a corner of the bedsheets, but he found himself almost unable to lift a hand to help. When these somewhat rushed ablutions were complete, Christine slipped into bed beside him, and arranged the covers over them, plastering herself along his front and kissing his slack mouth tenderly.

“Erik did not do any of that,” said Raoul.

Christine laughed, then pressed a hand to her mouth as if horrified, but it was too late; Raoul was laughing too. It felt freeing, to be able to laugh at anything connected with that man, and if their laughter edged towards hysteria or was tinged with sobs, that was between them and them alone.


End file.
